


Before The Storm

by Dredfulhapiness



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Iron Dad, M/M, Skyrim AU, there's a war going on out there, this started as a warmup but now I have ideas for literally every character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24879190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dredfulhapiness/pseuds/Dredfulhapiness
Summary: “What about you?” Tony asked. “Running around half-naked in a winter like this one.”Peter looked down at his sorry excuse for soup. He bit his lip, thoughtful for a long pause, and then looked back up at them. “A dragon attacked Helgen,” he said, levelling his gaze. “I’m on my way to Whiterun.”Tony and Steve both stared at him, expressions blank. After a long breath meeting the kid’s eye, Tony broke off to laugh. “You could just say it’s none of our business,” he said. “No need to be an ass.”
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 13
Kudos: 36





	Before The Storm

Winters in Skyrim were nasty, brutal things. Even under layers of pelts, Tony could feel the bite of the wind against the nape of his neck. It chilled him to the bone. It was impossible to ever be fully warm in the winter months. Even Steve, who never seemed to be as affected by the cold as the rest of them, had his heaviest clothes on and hands reaching out toward the fire..

Behind them, their friends slept in shoddily-made tents. It was Steve’s turn to be keeping watch, but he and Tony shared the same, sleepless affliction. On good nights, they kept each other company. On nights like tonight, they sat in prolonged silence with only the distant sound of wolves to remind them they weren’t alone in the forest. 

This had been their tradition for the three years they’d been travelling together. Steve or Tony would attempt to go to sleep with the others, get comfortable under their bedrolls and close their eyes and count sheep uselessly until the numbers ranged to triple digits and they were still wide awake. They didn’t bother anymore with the amicable  _ can’t sleep?  _ just handed the other a cup of water or a bottle of mead and settled in for a night with the other’s company.

Watch was always boring. Sometimes, Tony would prefer a fitful night’s sleep over being aware of the chill creeping under his skin. 

This winter was worse than most. It had come early and it showed no signs of waning. 

Which is why, when Tony saw the boy scrambling down a rocky incline wearing nothing but rags, he knew something was wrong. He didn’t appear to have seen them, eyes trained forward with heedless tenacity. The woods were a dangerous place to have tunnel vision.

Tony exchanged a look with Steve, whose usual calculating gaze had turned into a curious frown. With the light of fire under his chin, it would look menacing to most. Tony knew him well enough to decipher it as concern. 

Tony raised an eyebrow.  _ Should we?  _ His expression read. Steve looked back at the kid, who tripped with a stifled  _ oof  _ over a fallen log. He looked weak on his feet, shoulders slouched and arms swinging near-uselessly at his sides. 

Tony didn’t wait for Steve’s nod. He got up and made his way toward the fumbling child. Steve followed behind. 

“Awfully late to be travelling,” he called out. 

The kid shouted, flailed as he whirled to face Tony. His face was shrouded by the shadow of trees, pine needles obscuring his face with dark blotches. Tony could make out the whites of his eyes, though, bright in the darkness. 

“I don’t want any trouble!” he replied, and he sounded young. 

“We’re not looking to give you any,” Steve called back. 

The boy didn’t look convinced, but when Tony took a few steps forward, he didn’t run-- just met his eye with an untrusting gaze. 

Upon closer inspection, he couldn’t have been older than eighteen. His body quivered with the cold, short breaths came out like steam from a kettle. His hand hovered over where a dagger was strapped to his hip, eyes darting between Steve and Tony. 

“You look like you could use a hot meal,” Steve said, breaking the tense silence. “Let us feed you.” 

Maybe it was Steve’s charismatic smile that won him over, or maybe it was the sight of a crackling fire and the idea of food. Either way, he hesitated, stared for a few moments more, then moved his hand away from his weapon, and nodded. 

Within minutes, they were all back to sitting in silence. The stranger sat as close to the fire as was comfortable and pulled the pelt tighter around himself. One hand held a bowl of weak broth and bear meat. If he noticed how shitty Bruce’s cooking was, he didn’t let on. 

“So what’s your name, kid?” Tony asked, mostly just to make conversation. 

He sipped at his soup and regarded Tony uneasily, as if trying to determine whether or not he were fae. “Peter,” he said with a puff of steam, and if it were a lie, Tony wouldn’t have cared. 

“Steve.” Steve introduced himself with a nod. “That’s Tony.” 

“You two from around here?” Peter asked. Tony opened his mouth to point out that if they were from around here they wouldn’t be camping out in the harsh winter night. They’d be, at the very least, around a hearth. At the most, they’d be safe in their own beds.

“We’re from all around,” Steve said before Tony could let his quick wit anger the kid.

The response was a calculating stare. In the better lighting, Tony watched him take in the sight of them: the hand holding the pelt together tightened its grip like a heartbeat. There were specks of blood on the side of his face, more up his right arm; he hadn’t gotten here without a fight. That fact should have made Tony see him as a threat, but he and Steve could take the kid easily, and Bruce and Nat would wake up to the sound of a scuffle. 

No, it would be stupid for him to start a fight, which is probably why he asked,

“Who do you fight for?” Peter asked, glancing at their armor. 

“We don’t care which gods you worship, if that’s what you’re asking,” Tony said. Peter stared at him. It wasn’t what he’d been asking. 

Tony sighed. 

“We fight for ourselves,” Steve said. He was skilled at delivering nonanswers. “It’s not polite to ask so many questions.” 

“Not many folk are friendly out here,” Peter said. 

“I suppose not,” Steve agreed. He’d spent enough time in the Imperial Legion to know the evils of war, and he’d spent enough time travelling with their merry gang to know the evils of everyone else. 

“And you are?” Peter asked.

“We’re feeding you, aren’t we?” Tony said, curt. 

“Point taken,” Peter said. He looked thoughtful for a long minute. In the candlelight, the bruise on the side of his leg was noticeable: black and large and intimidating. It had to hurt, but he hadn’t been limping. “Why are you all out here?” he asked, “and who are you?”

Their assorted grouping had been the result of long nights in a tavern. Around them, a war waged on, separating Skyrim into factions. Tony knew about the obvious ones: the Imperials and the Stormcloaks, frontrunners of most battles. 

He’d found out about the Dark Brotherhood the hard way-- on the road between Whiterun and Windhelm. The hard way, of course, involved swords and arrows. It was an encounter he’d barely escaped.

Nat knew about them best. Though, Tony had only found that out because Steve had caught her slipping poison into Tony’s drink. The night Tony had mumbled, “you can’t even trust barmaids anymore,” was the night their trio was formed. 

Bruce had come later, at a pass blocked by bandits. They found out, after wasting their ammo, that the Orc would have been just fine without their intervention. The watchtower the bandits had acquisitioned had been run down by the time the fight was over. Some walls were filled with gaping holes that overlooked the raging river, a few of the steps up were reduced to cracked pieces of rubble. 

It didn’t take long for the four of them to garner a reputation. The ex-assassin, the muscle, the charming leader, and Tony. No one quite had a read on him, save for the Dark Brotherhood, who were slowly collecting bounties for his head. 

The nation had named them The Avengers. None of them were entirely sure who (or what) they were avenging. They didn’t advertise it, but there weren’t many towns that didn’t have their faces displayed on either wanted posters or murals. 

But the kid had asked, which meant he didn’t know. “We take odd jobs for money,” Tony put it simply. 

“Mercenaries?” Peter raised an eyebrow.

“When it suits us,” Tony said, nonchalant.

“Fences?” 

Steve snorted at that. “You got something worth our time?” he asked. 

Peter motioned to his ragged outfit. If he had anything on him worth selling, they would be able to see it. 

“What about you?” Tony asked. “Running around half-naked in a winter like this one.” 

Peter looked down at his sorry excuse for soup. He bit his lip, thoughtful for a long pause, and then looked back up at them. “A dragon attacked Helgen,” he said, levelling his gaze. “I’m on my way to Whiterun.” 

Tony and Steve both stared at him, expressions blank. After a long breath meeting the kid’s eye, Tony broke off to laugh. “You could just say it’s none of our business,” he said. “No need to be an ass.” 

“I’m not being an ass,” Peter said. “I was there.” 

“Dragons are extinct at least,” Steve said. “Legends at most.”

“Then I take it you haven’t seen one?” 

“I think you’ve had too much mead,” Tony said, “because no one’s seen a dragon.”

“The people of Helgen have,” Peter said. “Their town is wiped off the map.”

“Say we were to believe you,” Steve said, “what were you doing in Helgen anyway?” 

The kid squared his jaw. “Passing through,” he said, and Tony could tell it was a lie. 

“And what is Whiterun going to do to help you? Send some guards to go kill a dragon? They can hardly bring in a pickpocket?” Tony added. 

“I need a conference with the Jarl,” Peter said. 

“You’ll never make it there like that,” Tony said, eyeing up the kid’s weak arms and lack of armor. “Between here and there there’s at least six bandit camps.” 

Peter swallowed, but the concern didn’t show on his face. “I’ll have to find a way around them, then,” he said simply. 

Tony searched his face. He was either a fool or a great liar. 

“We leave for Whiterun at dawn,” Tony decided. 

Both Peter and Steve whipped their heads to look at him, but they wore far different expressions. Peter’s was soft with surprise, lips parted and eyes wide. Steve’s was hard with a question, scowling and eyes narrowed. Tony pretended to ignore them both. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Peter started at the same time Steve said, “Tony--” 

“You won’t even make it halfway there like that,” Tony said decisively. “No clothes, no weapons. The cold would kill you before any bandits could.” 

Steve was still staring at him. Tony could feel his eyes on the side of his face, could imagine his nose scrunching the way it always did when someone undermined his authority. It was almost always Tony he gave that look to, and Tony had grown immune to it. 

“That’s too kind,” Peter said. 

“Yes,” Steve agreed, terse. “It is.”

It was. Tony didn’t know this kid, and he certainly had no obligation to him, and Whiterun was an entire day’s journey out of their way, but sending him off on his own was a death sentence. Tony tried to avoid sending children to the slaughter.

“You can carry the heaviest bag,” Tony said simply. “We’ll call it even.”

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but Tony quickly added, “Take my bed roll. You need to rest.”

\--

“What are you doing, Stark?” Steve asked, voice low, when Peter’s breathing had settled. “We’re detouring to Whiterun?” 

Tony prodded at the waning fire with his sword. “He’s just a kid,” Tony plainly. “Isn’t that what you said about Wanda?”

“And I was wrong,” Steve retorted. 

“Well, I rarely am,” Tony said. “We’ll take the kid to Whiterun. He won’t survive without us.”

“And if it backfires?” 

Tony knew he was thinking about Clint. 

It hadn’t always just been the four of them. At one point, their lineup had included a ranger-- and a damn good one, at that. He’d met Nat a few journeys before they had, and he had been most of the reason she’d decided to denounce the Dark Brotherhood in the first place. Tony’s death was supposed to be her last hurrah, but the three of them had convinced her to burn the scroll. 

It hadn’t been easy. 

When they’d banished Wanda for necromancy, Clint had left with her.None of them had expected it, least of all Nat, who had put a hand on his wrist wordlessly. They’d shared a conversation like that in the warm tones of autumn, silent save for the quiet hitches of their breath. 

Clint was leaving. Nat couldn’t bring herself to go with them. 

They made their choices. 

They tried not to talk about Wanda anymore, and they definitely didn’t bring up Clint. The weeks after he’d left, Nat seemed to be grieving. She’d take her watch and sit vigil, never bothering to wake the others throughout the night. She tried to step up as their hunter and came back bloodied, without any meat in sight. 

They hadn’t seen him all winter, and Tony was starting to believe they wouldn’t see him in spring, either. 

“I’ll take the blame,” Tony said simply. 

\--

“There’s a child here,” Nat said as she wiped the sleep out of her eyes. Her hair stuck out in places, and there was a red mark where she had rested her head on her arm in the night. “Why is that?” She looked at Steve as she said it, lips turned down. 

“Ask Stark,” Steve said. He had already packed up his unused bedroll. “And while you’re at it, ask him why we’re taking a detour to Whiterun.” 

Nat fixed her gaze on him, even as she pulled down her tent. “Not again,” she said. “Last time--” 

“Last time we took a detour for a kid, it was because Bruce needed medical attention,” Tony pointed out. “Besides, that kid needed to learn how to forge a sword.”

“Not every child you find has to be a project,” Nat said. 

“And not every kid is,” Tony said. “It’s winter and he’s unarmed. We’re stopping by Whiterun.”

And Nat, gods bless her, knew when to pick her battles. 

“We can get produce from the farm outside the walls,” she said simply. “We’re running low.” 

When Bruce woke, he looked at Peter (now awake and helping to pack up their rations) and asked, “We’re not heading toward Solitude today, are we?” 

“Nope,” Nat and Steve said, looking pointedly at Tony. He ignored them, settling instead on handing Peter one of the few spare pelts they had. 

“You can find warmer clothes in the city,” he said. “This will have to do for now.” 

The kid was a quiet travelling partner, his mouth worried to a thin line. When someone asked him a question, he replied with answers just long enough it was clear he was trying to be polite, all  _ I was walking for a day and a half when I found you-- I’d just left Riverwood. It’s very dreary there.  _ And then he’d fall back into silence. 

On one hand, his clear distrust tugged uncomfortably at Tony’s heart. He was so young-- far too young to be travelling on his own. On the other hand, you were never too young to become skeptical nowadays. It seemed Skyrim had lost integrity with the rise of the Stormcloaks. 

Ulfric Stormcloak declared himself High King of Skyrim, then demanded they separate themselves from the crumbling Empire that spanned the whole continent of Tamriel. He pretended, of course, that half of his own city didn’t live in the slums. 

He was opposed, mainly, by the Imperials, a faction Steve had fought for before meeting Tony. They sided with the Empire, believed in the terms of agreement Skyrim had decided to follow when they joined in the first place-- the biggest point of contention, of course, was their denouncement of the god Talos. At best, worship would get you arrested. At worst...

The war could be blamed on Ulfric’s lust for power. It could be blamed on the Imperial Legion’s religious persecution. 

Tony had chosen not to pick a side. Ulfric was an ass, and the Imperials defied freedom. He didn’t see the benefit in settling for the lesser evil.

They stopped for lunch in a clearing. 

“You ever shot one of these before?” Nat asked Peter, her tone just on the edge of scornful. Peter was in poor form, back bent and legs akimbo, like even he wasn’t sure where he wanted the arrow to go. Peter pressed his lips together.

Nat pried the longbow from his fingers, and pulled an arrow from the quiver he had slung on his back. She cast her eyes up to the treeline and followed the branches until she caught sight of a sparrow. Birds were rare this time of year, often flying to the south of Cyrodiil, but some lingered far enough into the winter months that it would be more detrimental for them to migrate down. 

Nat killed it easily. The bird fell, dead, onto the frozen ground. 

“It’s bad luck to kill a sparrow,” Peter said as she retrieved the arrow. 

“So is starving.” She shoved the bird into the pouch she wore around her waist. She shoved the bow back into Peter’s hand. “You try.” 

Peter took the bloodied arrow she held out to him, pinched it between two fingers and held it away from himself. He looked at her, then back at the arrow. He nocked it. 

“Straighten your back,” Nat said sharply, but not unkindly. “Chin up.” Then, “is that as far back as you can pull it?” 

Peter swallowed. “No,” he said, and he managed to bring it back another quarter inch. 

Tony watched them, and he felt a lump in his throat. Nat had been a good enough shot when they met her. After all, she was a trained assassin, and a fine one. No one knew her exact kill count, but Clint had joked once that it easily could have been in the hundreds. 

One of their first nights travelling together, Clint had corrected her stance. It was nothing major-- a comment about her footing, or the way her hair fell in her face, but Nat had whipped around with a sneer that could make a crow drop dead. 

“I think I know how to shoot an arrow,” she’d bit, which was nicer than what she would have said to either Steve or Tony. 

“And I think you’re going to pull a muscle like that,” Clint had replied, his expression nothing less than bemused. He didn’t flinch at her anger. 

He’d corrected her stance once. Twice. Three times, until she could hit a gold piece on a tree a quarter mile away. 

She’d become a more fearsome assassin that day, and today she was a teacher, wrenching Peter’s arm aside when it strayed too far to the left, foot kicking his when he angled it too far out. 

“Who taught you how to shoot a bow?” she asked him. 

“Y-you did?” Peter said, voice trembling. She’d never been particularly good with children. 

“Nat, let the kid eat lunch,” Tony finally called out from where he was sharpening Steve’s sword. 

“And not teach him how to catch it?” Nat asked over her shoulder. “That’s setting him up to starve.” Then, to Peter, “again.” 

Peter nodded. He brought the bow up, the apex of the string right beside his cheek. 

When he let go, the arrow flew straight into a tree with enough force to stick. Peter’s face brightened. “I did it!” he said, and for a moment he seemed so much younger than he’d been presenting. 

“The arrow wobbled,” Nat said, taking the bow back. She sounded proud. 

“C’mon, Nat,” Bruce said. He was under a tree, lazily peeling an apple with a knife, “He did fine. We all know what a woman’s weapon of choice is.” 

“And yet you still ask me to cook dinner,” she said without hesitation. 

“You sure you should be using that knife there, friend?” Tony asked Bruce before he became any further emboldened. “We all remember what happened the last time you cut your thumb.” 

“What happened the last time he cut his thumb?” Peter asked. He had one foot propped on the trunk of the tree, his hands wrapped around the shaft of the arrow. He pulled it out of the tree with a grunt and nearly fell backward. 

“Orcs and their berserker rage,” Tony said idly, “they’re hard to like when they’re angry.”

“I’m perfectly capable of peeling an apple,” Bruce replied, sounding tired. “You’re gonna scare the kid.”

“Maybe he  _ should _ be scared of you,” Nat mused. “We all saw what you did to that Bandit’s head.” 

Peter looked between them uncomfortably. He still had the arrow in one hand.

“Leave him alone, guys,” Steve interjected. “We’re leaving in fifteen whether you’ve eaten or not.” 

\--

When the walls of Whiterun became visible through the treeline, Tony put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. They fell a few paces back, far enough away from the others that they wouldn’t be heard. 

“You don’t have any money, do you, kid?” Peter blinked at him. Despite the cold, there was sweat beading at his brow. 

He shook his head. “If you’re asking me to pay for the escort, I’m sure I could repay--”

Tony held a hand out. “I offered,” He said. “I’m not charging you.” He untied his coin purse from his waist and tossed it to Peter. “It’s not much, but it should get you some clothes and a sword, at least.” 

Peter stared at the leather bag, eyes crowing at the corners. “I can’t accept this,” he said, holding it back out to Tony. “You’ve already done so much--”

“I’m not asking,” Tony said plainly. “Learn to accept kindness.” 

It wasn’t actually a kindness; the money was no skin off his back. Not everyone was so fortunate as to have been born a Stark. 

“Thank you, sir,” Peter said. He tucked it under his pelt, alongside his dagger. 

“Don’t mention it,” Tony said, and he meant it. 

It was dusk when they parted ways with Peter. The guards at the gate let him in without too much of a fuss, and if they recognized their so-called Avengers, none of them said anything. There was a risk to visiting cities, anymore. Save for a couple, they’d made a handful of nasty impressions. There weren’t many cities in Skyrim that weren’t calling for their arrests. 

“Are you satisfied?” Steve asked as they neared where the trail from the city fed into the forest. 

“Don’t ask, Steve-- you know he never is.” When she looked over at Tony, though, her eyes sparkled. 

“I think it was nice,” Bruce said. 

“I’ve done my good deed for the year,” Tony said gruffly. “May the gods smile down on me, or whatever.” 

The kid was safe in the city’s walls-- whether or not he had a conference with the Jarl wasn’t his problem, and neither was any other trouble the kid got into. They’d delivered him safely to Whiterun, and now they could head to the ports of Solitude like they’d originally planned. 

Steve opened his mouth to retort-- maybe to accuse Tony of showing his underbelly, or maybe to blame him for their abrupt change in course. For a brief second, Tony convinced himself the roar they heard came from Steve. Then he felt the burst of wind, strong enough to knock him into Bruce. 

He looked back. It was in the sky, wingspan as wide as a small village, scales glinting even as it blocked out the sun. It opened its mouth, and fire rained down on the grass. It landed, and the watchtower groaned under its weight. Its claws were the size of people, it’s teeth were like stalactites. 

“Shit,” Tony breathed, just barely loud enough to be heard over the roar of giant wings flapping. “That’s a dragon.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably update this whenever I get bored with my current WIP. I had a lot of fun with this one, mostly because I've logged upwards of 200 hours into Skyrim in the past 9 years. 
> 
> Feel free to come talk to me on Tumblr @dredfulhapiness my asks are always open!


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